


*insert laugh track*

by al_coholica



Category: Metallica
Genre: 1980s, 1990s, Alcohol, Alternate Universe - No Band, Child Abandonment, Cocaine, Comedian James Hetfield, Coming Out, Cultural Differences, Drug Use, Eventual Happy Ending, Fame, Implied Sexual Content, Jokes, Lots of Cursing, M/M, Marriage, Minor Character Death, Period-Typical Homophobia, References to Depression, San Francisco, Secret Relationship, Stand-Up Comedy, Verbal Abuse, Violent Thoughts, fuck you im doing this
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-29
Updated: 2020-05-23
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:33:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 12,952
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23911618
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/al_coholica/pseuds/al_coholica
Summary: A soft wave of laughter came crashing at his feet, which were probably the saddest goddamn feet you’d ever seen. The shoes were practically held together with old gum and duct tape and had been set on fire a couple of times. Luckily, the velcro still stuck, so as long as he nearly cut off the circulation to his feet, the shoes would stay on no matter what. Velcro was like pure magic sometimes.
Relationships: James Hetfield/Lars Ulrich
Comments: 9
Kudos: 34





	1. the club

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys! I'm back with another Metallica fic! Now, I was watching a comedy special today and I just couldn't get this idea out of my head. I wrote in the style you'd usually see Bill Burr or maybe David Spade use, but I'm gonna try to mix my own sense of humor into, which is mostly dry, silly comedy. I understand that people don't really enjoy that style, but I'm also gonna mix in some physical comedy you'd see John Belushi or Chris Farley use. Please give a kudo or leave a comment if you'd like, and if you have a comedian whose style you'd like me to mix in, I'll be sure to take a look into it. Now please, enjoy! <3

“I think old people are fuckin’ overrated.” 

A soft wave of laughter came crashing at his feet, which were probably the saddest goddamn feet you’d ever seen. The shoes were practically held together with old gum and duct tape and had been set on fire a couple of times. Luckily, the velcro still stuck, so as long as he nearly cut off the circulation to his feet, the shoes would stay on no matter what. Velcro was like pure magic sometimes. 

“You know you go around, fuckin’ minding your manners, saying ‘yes sir’ ‘no ma’am’ then all of a sudden you get whacked with an umbrella just because your wearing the wrong color pants,” the blond paused, paced to the other side of the stage, and pulled a smirk, “You go walking down the street and there’s an old woman like seventeen blocks away calling you an ungrateful yuppy just because your not dropping all your shit to help her get off the curb. Like what is that?” 

The laughter, coming from unseen spectacles, came on heavier. Despite having otherwise perfect vision, the lights were what was fucking him over, because he couldn’t see shit with them glaring in his eyes. 

“An old guy gets mad at you just because your parents had the heart _not_ to ship you off to war when you were fourteen, like ‘I’m sorry man, I was only twelve when the war ended, I was just two years short of the draft age.’ Like I don’t understand why older men don’t think young men are just as ballsy as they are.” He paced to the opposite side of the stage again, knowing his legs would begin to shake if he stayed in one place too long. “I mean, sure you were blowin’ up fuckin' Charlie’s and shooting innocent women and children, but motherfucker I have had more brain trauma from skateboarding than you have had sex with Vietnamese prostitutes. Don’t call me a yuppy until you’ve gone sixty miles an hour down a ninety-degree hill with a half a bottle of _Smirnoff_ in your system at three in the morning."

He held his arms out to the side, bent his knees, and swayed side to side. "I'm going down, I don't got any goddamn lights, I don't know where the fuck I'm going; all of a sudden a shithead squirrel comes and sits out in the middle of the road-" he threw his body to the side, barely catching himself with his sad feet- "Fuckin' swerve because you don't wanna spend the rest of your day picking goddamn squirrel guts from the wheels, I end up smashing my goddamn head against a tree." 

He paced back to the center of the stage, letting the cackles die down as he took a sip of his drink he was told not to bring on stage. 

"You know what else I hate? _Camera crews._ "

"James, I tell you, you're a goddamn funny son-of-a-bitch." 

Nineteen-year-old James Hetfield already knew that. From early childhood he was the only good thing in that fucked up household of his, and to suppress his emotional trauma in a healthier way other than the occasional huff of blow and chugging of the bottle, he'd make people laugh. It was simple enough, you just had to tell stories, but you had to exaggerate them a bit. There was never a squirrel in the road, he just lost his balance. 

"Anything new you wanna tell me, Flannery?" He asked quietly, letting the smoke from his cigarette lick his teeth and float up into the air like a cloud that was in captivity. His manager shifted in his seat, the sweat on his forehead apparent even in the dim light of the back of the club. 

Tom Flannery was a forty-four-year-old man who was twice divorced and currently going through a financial crisis. Not only did he manage James, but he also ran a small strip club on the edge of town that only ministers who had cheated on their wives fourteen times came to. Next to the strip club job, he had invested in a small restaurant franchise that just _had_ to make it big someday. James liked Tom, but sometimes the early adult believed that his trusty manager was in with the mob, which was why his wallet always seemed to be empty.

It wouldn't surprise him. After all, Tom _did_ come from New York.

"Hetfield, baby, I love you to pieces but this club shit is below you now. I mean you should've seen yourself tonight! Compared to all these chums-" Tom motioned a finger to the young lady on stage who was currently sweating bullets and reeling in at least three laughs every four jokes- "You're a motherfucking King in here!" 

James sighed and looked up to his manager, who looked like a chubby love-child of Jack Nicholson and Cary Grant. His hair was oily and slicked back, showing off his soft jowls and wrinkly babyface. He always wore a suit a size too fucking small, and the rolls from his ribs and his cream cheese arms always looked like they were gonna burst through the dark material. Not to mention the rings on his fingers squeezing them so much that James was sure they were going to fall off from lack of blood. 

"Don't fuckin' start, Flannery..." He groaned, throwing his head back, hiding his eyes with his tired hand. His manager, however, scooted forward and continued with his familiar rant. 

"Jamie, listen to me. You've been eyed by Carson, Letterman, Saturday Night, I mean these big guys are eying you like they haven't fucked and you're the first goddamn broad they've ever seen in three decades. They want you on their shows, Jamie! With your talent, you could be a stand-up king!" 

"Ugh, Tom, listen to yourself! You've told me this shit over and over again. On Carson or Letterman, I would get, what? Five minutes to tell some crummy jokes? Then what? I get my ass sent home and get scowled at on the street by old ladies who had been watching Carson since the fuckin' sixties because I bitched about them," He paused, slouching in his chair, kicking his long legs up and propping his falling apart shoes on the table, "And _Saturday Night._ Oh, my dear Flannery, you know that shitty show isn't gonna last another fucking season. And even if it did, I'm not a fucking theater boy, I'm a stand-up comedian. I would rather get my throat slit than read off a cue card." 

Tom nervously wiped his profusely sweating forehead, his barely visible throat bobbing. He was probably thinking about concrete shoes...

"Look, Tom," James began again, taking his shoes off the table to lean forward and grasp the older man's sweaty wrist, "I appreciate all the shit you do for me, I really do. But clubs like these, chums like them," He pointed to a new fella on stage with a dummy sitting in his lap, "They are what make this fuckin' job fun. I love watching their little acts, it gives people a chance to express themselves without competition." 

Tom looked at James like he just snapped his dog's neck, and he leaned forward, eyes wide.

"Competition? Competition?! Jamie the whole stand-up gig is a competition! My God, boy! These motherfuckers are _twice_ your age and they suck more balls than a whore in a porno, why don't you take that information and run with it? I mean, you're young, you're good looking, you're single-"

James' shoulders slouched, which went unnoticed by his rambling manager.

"-and you're hilarious. My God those old hags you bitch about would probably Niagara Falls in their granny-panties once they saw you on TV. You're an adorable blond who can make people laugh. Kid, you're like the funny male version of Marilyn Monroe." 

“I’ll try to keep that in mind, Tom, I really will." The blond deadpanned, taking an inhale off of his nearly untouched cigarette. The conversation was boring to the young comic, who was currently trying to brush off the fact that his manager believed the was single...

"James, all I'm saying is this: you have in chance in the starlight. You get out there on Carson or Letterman and I swear on my mother's grave you'll kill that whole crowd with just a _smile."_ Tom said quietly, a hint of pleading in his voice. James would never say it out loud, but he knew that Tom was just doing this thing to save his own ass. The guy was probably living off club peanuts and free samples at the mall, perhaps maybe even sleeping in a van in the alley, ironing out his suits with a boiling pot of water off of a hot plate. Maybe the older man did believe in him, maybe he did think he was the shit, but still, the blond knew that Tom was just trying to make it another day. 

"And if I fuck it up?" He asked bitterly, causing his manager's face to fall. 

"Then you try again until someone realizes how much potential you've got." 

James smiled, surprised. Definitely a bullshit answer, but it certainly made Tom look good. 


	2. hop sing

The saddest goddamn feet you've ever seen actually came from Hop Sing. No, not the chief off of _Bonanza,_ it was a Chinese man by the name of Bingwen who owned a small buffet that James lived above. The older Chinese man was practically his landlord, mother, and enemy all rolled into one. James gave the rent to him every month, and Bingwen actually excepted it even if it was fifty dollars short. He provided James food almost every night, always holding out a bag for the young comic to take before going back into his home. And when James literally did _anything,_ he would get a string of Chinese and English curses thrown at him.

So the young blond called him Hop Sing. The landlord, mother, and enemy rolled into one. He had seen James' shoes, pointed at them, and told him in a deadpan voice: "Those are the saddest goddamn feet I've ever seen. You need to get you better shoes, child." _Child._ Bingwen always had to call him a child, just to rub it into his face. 

James straightened his shoulders- because he would be yelled at if he didn't walk tall and strong- and opened the door to the buffet, immediately pulling a shitty smile onto his face. Despite him mulling over his decision to become a big star, the blond was frowning the whole walk home. You can only be funny for so long until your shitty life came crawling back into the spotlight. But still, he pulled a cheery smile across his face, loosening his tie. 

"Hey, Hop Sing! Had a good day?" He asked, jumping up onto the main counter, his pants causing him to give a little slide of gusto. He made sure of that, he always had to have a dramatic effect to anything he did.

"Bǎ nǐ de pìgu cóng wǒ de guìtái shàng ná xiàlái, nǐ zhège húndàn!" Bingwen shouted, using both hands on the blond's shoulder blades to shove him off. James let out a laugh and jumped over the counter like you would a fence. 

"Oh c'mon now, Hop Sing, I'm just curious about your day!" The young comic shrugged, making his way back through the kitchen to get to his apartment. You see, the building was designed by some fuck up who decided, 'hey you know what would be convenient? to access the apartments by going through the kitchen!' and all of his other fuck up buddies decided it was a good idea. James had told that in a club before, only putting on a funny voice and exaggerating it. 

Remember, jokes were just exaggerated stories. 

"You want to know about my day? Alright, I'll tell you about my day. It was hard! My employees and I do nothing but slave all day over the stove and what do we get? We get to deal with some blond asshole and his little brother!" 

_Little brother: Code name James gave Lars._

"Oh really? Who might be this blond asshole, Hop Sing? Maybe I could have a talk with him." James smiled, pulling the back door open that led into a small room with a spiral staircase that then led into the multiple apartments. Bingwen and his family lived in the one closest to the stairs, two delivery guys lived on the second floor, and James lived on the very top, which gave him access to the roof. Bingwen practically shoved the comic and his 'little brother' on the top floor, saying something about if there ever was a fire, they would die because of how far away the apartment was to the ground building.

Gotta love Bingwen.

"I saw your program tonight, very funny I must say." The Chinese man mused, following James up the spiral staircase. "When are you doing to go pro?"

"When I die," The blond answered, turning around halfway to look to his frenemy, "Which might be soon if my manager doesn't get off my dick about going ahead and doing it. I swear that bowling ball just wants in on the cash, which is one of the reasons I haven't gone into the business professionally," James paused, smirking at Bingwen, "Hop Sing, would you like to become my manager?" 

"I would rather cook my own heart on one of the stoves and eat it." He handed James the take out bag with two containers in it. "Your little brother didn't come to get the food, he said something about waiting for you. I swear, his accent is so thick even _I_ can't understand what the boy is saying, are you _sure_ he's your brother?" 

The young comic felt his face melt into a soft smile. _Lars waited for him._

"Like I said, Hop Sing, he's adopted." He said quietly, taking the food and giving Bingwen an affectionate slap on the shoulder. "I'll see you around, make sure to watch me next Saturday, alright?" 

"No."

"That's the spirit!" James praised, taking the stairs two at a time in order to steer clear of Bingwen's insults. Plus, with legs as long as his, he practically _had_ to take the steps two at a time. He made his way up to the second apartment, where the door was wide open and the smell of Marijuana was so strong you would practically choke on it. The second apartment was owned by two moron delivery boys named Cliff Burton and Kirk Hammett, two older boys who had been living there since 1979. 

Cliff was a long, lanky man with shoulder-length brown hair that was majestic and flowing like a great stallion's mane. He usually wore bell-bottoms, and when he wasn't in his work shirt that had turned yellow because of all his cigarette smoke, he usually wore just a jean jacket. He was a pretty chill guy, honest, polite, and of course, always stoned after work. Kirk was different. He was short with the same length hair as his roommate, only it was thick, curly, and black. He wore a lot of skinny jeans and band shirts with the sleeves cut off. He was half Filipino, so no matter what time of the year it was, he was usually tan. 

Both guys were nice to James, hell, they even were lowkey fans of his comedic work, and constantly caught him after a gig to gush about it. They were stoned, of course, so anything that came out of James' mouth was funny to them. But they were friends, and friends support friends. 

"Hey, motherfuckers!" He called into their apartment, looking into their messy home with wonder. They had spray painted shit on the walls, there were clothes everywhere, and in every window there was a Marijuana plant sitting proudly, soaking up the sun. The plants now popped out against the dark night outside, and James wanted to hide every single plant so that they couldn't be seen by cops or thugs looking for something to smoke. 

Kirk was the first to respond, his curly head sticking up from the couch with accidental cigarette burns, and he gave a big smile and waved at James. "Hey man! I just saw your show, you fucking killed!" He said, followed by Cliff coming out from the bathroom with a joint stuck in between his lips with an even bigger smile. 

"Fuck yeah you killed man, you goddamn joke machine!" He said, coming up to the blond and giving him a quick bear hug. "Say I got a pussy joke that would really get the crowds rolling, man." He informed once he pulled away. James shook his head. 

"Can't tell pussy jokes, Cliff, it might offend someone." 

"Oh, who gives a shit about offending someone?! I tell ya it's a funny joke, I told it to Kirk over here and his pissed himself laughing." 

"Look, Cliff, as much as I would love for you to help me sort out my act here, I got a starving brother upstairs and about seventy-five dollars in quarters weighing down my pants. Now why don't you and Kirky over there write down a big ol' list of jokes for me, and Saturday when I go back to the club, I'll drop by and pick them up before I leave. Because, whew, I sure am getting tired of trying to come up with shit on my own, you know?" 

Cliff pursed his lips, considering the offer. Meanwhile, Kirk was already writing shit down on a pizza box with a sharpie. These two guys were funny as hell, but their comedy wasn't for the stand-up type. They seemed more of a duo, like a doped-up Laurel and Hardy who delivered Chinese food all day and fucked themselves over all night time after time. Of course, James would look at the jokes, but he would have to break them apart and piece them together into his own type of monster, he had to put his own signature on the joke so that people would recognize it was him speaking; not two Marijuana-fueled delivery boys. 

"Do we get credit?"

"Of course." 

"Okay." 

James smiled as Cliff sauntered over to his couch, and he raced up the remainder of the stairs to his own apartment. It was, since being on the top floor, a little bit bigger than the two down below. He opened the door to find the lamp on, which cast a comforting, orange glow into the neat home. It wasn't much, just a TV set, a love seat, and a small coffee table. The cramped, little kitchen was to James' left, the living room to his right, and straight ahead was a small hallway that had the bathroom and the bedroom. 

The comic closed the door behind him, making sure to give it a little bit of a slam to notify Lars that he was here. The younger boy- younger just by a mere four months- usually got off of work at five, which gave the two of them at least three hours to kill together before James had to go to the club. Lars ate his dinner alone and stored James' in the microwave until he got home. 

It was midnight, and James was holding both of their dinners in his hand. Lars scrambled out of the bedroom, his hair falling in messy locks around his face. He had an old shirt of James' on and a pair of briefs, and his long socks had bunched around his ankles. 

"Hey," James greeted sweetly, "Did you watch the gig?" 

Lars nodded.

"Why didn't you eat?" 

The Dane looked away, hands bunched in his shirt. 

"I'm not mad, baby, I just wanna know why you didn't eat. You must be starving." 

Lars nodded.

Yes, Lars could speak English. He just wasn't very good at it. He had come to America about a year or so ago, and while he knew what words meant what, his accent was thick, and the pronunciation usually confused older people and the occasional xenophobe. James could understand him just fine, but he just kept quiet to himself in order to stray away from embarrassment. 

But, he looked up at James with his big green eyes and gave a soft smile, "I wanted to eat with you, min skat." 

James returned the smile, placed the food on their small kitchen table, and pulled the small Dane into a gentle kiss. Tom Flannery, Bingwen, and the two delivery boys did not know the comic was gay.

No one did.


	3. the big star

"So apparently Saturday Night wants me on the show," James muttered behind a piece of orange chicken that he prayed wasn't spit into. He sat in his wife-beater and black suit pants, which only aesthetically clashed with his fucked up sneakers. He frowned, wondering why the fuck he brought up Saturday Night when he didn't want to be a part of it. He'd been mostly silent throughout his dinner, only letting out small burps and yawns, stewing in his own madness. 

Comedians, as thought by the public, were supposed to be happy at all times, and they were supposed to keep popping out jokes left and right until everyone was holding their sides in uncontrollable laughter. If that was true, then James wasn't a fucking comedian. Sure, he was an absolute _machine_ on stage, but at home, he was his true form: a gay, scrawny, blond-headed kid from Downey, California with a dead mother and an absent father. But the audience just kept laughing and laughing and laughing...

"Saturday Night?" Lars asked quietly, taking a small sip from his Coke, eyebrows upturned in confusion. 

"Yeah, you know, SNL, 'Live from New York, it's Saturday Night!' _That_ show." 

" _Oh,_ right. I had forgotten what it was called," Lars paused, a radiant smile flashed across his features before he reached a whopping four inches across the table to grab James' hand, "That is wonderful news, min elskede!" 

James huffed out a bitter laugh and shook his head. He sadly smiled at the Dane across from him before he kissed the hand holding his. "I'm afraid I'm not gonna take the job, Angel eyes." 

Lars frowned.

"Why not? I thought you wanted to go pro...?"

"No, that's what Tom wants. See, I've been getting offers from talk show hosts like Johnny Carson and David Letterman, at least that's what the bastard tell me. Now say I go out onto their shows and bomb, or say something that could get me kicked off because on live TV you can't say shit like 'fuck' or 'goddamn,' and while that wouldn't be a problem, words like that make my acts funnier. And Saturday Night... well, it's not what it seems, Lars. We would have to move to New York, which is a damn near impossible place to live because of how expensive the apartments are. Then, I'd have to stay up day and night writing my own shit just to perform it with people who might fuck it up and not deliver it right. I'd much rather spend my time over the week putting together something _at home,_ then go to the clubs on Saturdays, perform it, then come back and call it a day. But Tom keeps chewing my ear off about how 'talented' I am, when all the motherfucker wants to do is keep him from sleeping with the fishes." 

"Well, maybe he does think you are talented, James. You never know, he could think you're the best thing since sliced bread, and if you're getting offers from these men who have their own _shows_ then you must be doing something right! Your routines are not censored, so if these men are offering a solid five minutes or so, then they must think you are funny with or without the cursing, and if someone better than Mr. Flannery sees you and likes you, then he's out of your hair." 

James leaned back in his chair, running the chances through his head. He was a good comedian, if he got close to one-hundred dollars, maybe more, each time he did a gig, then he obviously had something. But he never thought it would really be something that big hosts like Carson would actually like. And even though he hated the show with a dying passion, he was legitimately surprised when Tom told him about Saturday Night. It _was_ kind of like a stepping stone for stand-ups, but he didn't want to fall into the line of 'stand-up, SNL, movies, washed up, forgotten, etc, etc.' He became a comedian to be remembered, not for fucking fun. 

"What about Saturday Night?" He asked Lars, pushing around peas and rice with his chopsticks. "I _don't_ want to do it." 

The Dane opened his mouth to say something, but before a word could come out, he bit his bottom lip and stood from his seat. Rounding the table, he carefully sat across James' lap, wrapping an arm around his broad shoulders. He stayed quiet for a few seconds, his eyes roaming the blond's face before he took a strand of blond hair in between his fingers. 

"Then don't do it, min skat, that is your choice. But it seems to me that you just want to do your own Saturday Night, _you_ want to be the star without the help of anyone else-"

"That's not true." James interrupted gently, but Lars shook his head and caressed the comic's face.

"But it _is._ And while there is nothing wrong with that, it can be dangerous. You could end up like Lenny Bruce, or John Belushi, and they were phenomenal comedians and _huge_ stars. And I am not saying that as soon as you go pro, you'll die, I'm saying that if you want to be alone in your comedy, and if you want to be huge, you have to remember that you are only a man, and a man can only take so much, you have to start small." 

James leaned into Lars' palm, breathing out slowly into the warm skin. His Dane, as usual, was right about everything. He wanted to be a big star, his own star, but his... depression or sadness-whatever the fuck he had- did get to him at times. And like they say, the highs are really high and the lows are _low_. Whatever he couldn't snuff out with his comedy only came back to haunt him with the moments were quiet, and there was no audience to entertain. 

"Oh, min skat..." Lars sighed, "You dig such a sharp dagger into your mind, it confuses me on how such a bright smile can turn into such a heart-breaking frown," he kissed James softly, massaging his thumbs into the blond's cheeks gently, "Why must you hurt yourself so?" 

"I can't be Smiley McGee all the time, babe..." James murmured, resting his forehead against the Dane's. "What goes up must go down. I need to be miserable to balance with the funny side."

"No, you don't need to be miserable, you need to be contented. You mustn't let yourself crash after you rise, you have to gradually come down, and soon you'll be at peace with yourself; and that way you won't tear your mind apart into little pieces." 

The blond sighed heavily, letting his head fall into Lars' chest. He wrapped his arms tight around the Dane and held on for dear life, almost as if he were to let go, he'd crumble into a million pieces. God, he didn't know where he'd be without the body in his arms, frankly, he'd probably still be living with one of his brothers in Downey, writing in his notebook day in and day out, never to spit out the jokes he'd been crafting for years. Somehow, through all the pain and shit he'd gone through, his skill was only the next best thing. 

Lars was there for him, he was always there since day one, and James prayed with all his might that Lars would _stay._ He needed the brunette to stay and be his rock, to be the light at the end of the long, broken down tunnel. Stand-up could always wait, it wasn't a priority. 

"Lars," he whispered, pulling back, "I need to use the phone, I gotta call Tom." 

"What for?" 

"I'm starting small...I'm gonna ask him if Johnny Carson still wants me to come onto his show." 


	4. alone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> James was on his way to New York to talk with Johnny Carson, and Lars was staying in San Francisco because he didn't have enough vacation time to go along.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yeah this is a shitty chapter oop

James was going away to New York. Not- if Lars could make it any more clear- for Saturday Night. He could never understand what went through the blond's head about that show because he never had a problem with it. The sketches, at least to him, were comical. They certainly weren't like anything James had ever performed, but they were funny enough to make it onto the air, so it had to be somewhat good. 

The Dane sighed, drying the last plate from his lone dinner before storing it neatly away in the small cabinet space the smart apartment had to offer. He was going to be alone for 'at least a few days' as James put it, but just after a few mere hours of the comic being away, Lars felt undeniably isolated, and- though he would never admit it- vulnerable. Sure, there was Bingwen (or as James would like to say, 'Hop Sing'), and Cliff and Kirk, but they weren't James. 

James was on his way to New York to talk with Johnny Carson, and Lars was staying in San Francisco because he didn't have enough vacation time to go along. At first, the blond fought tooth and nail for the small Dane to come with him, and when that didn't work out, he locked himself into the bathroom and shouted over and over that he wasn't going. It took the Marijuana delivery boys downstairs to fish him out and convince him to go, despite him raising hell about it. 

_Then,_ in an odd twist of events, James was excited about going to New York. He packed more than enough shirts and underwear, he stayed up to ungodly hours writing jokes only to throw them away and go to his old trusty notebook, which held jokes he'd been writing since he was eleven. And not to mention, he stayed at home more, taking off the full week at his job at the sticker factory and just lounging around the house. 

At first, Lars was secretly worried that James would do something drastic. He could be so unpredictable at times that it scared the Dane a bit, from him playing jokes on people in public to him just sitting alone at three in the morning writing out his routines. The pranks weren't that bad, they were completely harmless, you just had to make sure that the people you were fooling had a good sense of humor. The times when James was alone were the times when the bubbly comedian wouldn't be so funny anymore...

Lars wasn't sure what to think about it, it would just be quiet times when James decided to tear himself apart so violently that it showed up in some of his jokes. The Dane would find him asleep on the couch, a legal pad chalked full of scribbles slipping from his grasp. He'd pull the pad away and read the new material, finding downright _revolting_ words scrambled together to make some sort of twisted joke that consisted of anger and neglect. The jokes were or course, never used when James came to his senses and read them himself. Lars wondered if the writings were a kind of subconscious way of dealing with the absence of his father and the passing of his mother at such early stages in his life. 

But James wasn't the only person he was tearing apart. There were times, albeit rare ones, where James would stew so much in his hate and sorrow that he would snap at Lars, spewing out such cruel words that it actually _hurt_ the small brunette. It was never anything he _did_ per se, actually, it was never anything about him, it was just hateful insults that James would be repeating to himself for too long that they finally decided to break free and make a nasty appearance. 

James had only once laid a hand on Lars. It was during one of their one-sided fights that was just James being pissed off about something the Dane did. Was it putting the dishes up wrong, or switching the TV channel to an undesirable station? Lars didn't know, all he knew was that his James was upset. He tried to do what he always did: just walk away. He turned to go to the bedroom when James snatched his wrist and yanked him close, saying something about 'not walking away from him when he's talking.' 

The comic instantly let the Dane go and broke down sobbing, probably when he saw the fear in his eyes. 

Lars slept on the couch with James to make sure he wouldn't go murdering his mind with unspoken 'jokes.' James told him that night that if he ever were to put his hands on him again, he'd cut them off. The small brunette let out a shudder as he wiped down the kitchen counter, praying to God and everything holy that James was alright. 

"Cynthia, vær venlig at beskytte din søn for mig, mens han er væk, okay?" He whispered, squeezing his eyes shut so he wouldn't cry all over his freshly cleaned counter. God, he missed James so much, more than he ever cared to admit. He could see his beautiful blond-headed boy, laughing up at him from his spot on the couch about how 'mushy and soft' he was being about him. 

"Oh, c'mon now, Pix, you can't love little ol' me _that_ much." 

_But I can,_ Lars huffed to himself, opening his eyes, _and I_ **_will._ **

In the morning, just as the sun was peeking in through the blinds, Lars awoke to the sound of the 'Weed brothers' downstairs listening to a baseball game at the volume level of a goddamn volcano erupting. Next, Bingwen's wife started to slam the handle of a broom against the ceiling, shouting something in a string of English and Chinese. Lars groaned and shoved his head underneath James' pillow, inhaling deeply so that he could have at least a few seconds of happiness before the day started. 

He slipped from the bed and made his way across the small room to the even smaller closet, where he plucked his work shirt from its hanger and slipped it on. It was larger than necessary, as all Dollar Tree employee shirts were, and with Lars being the opposite of tall, it came down to his mid-thigh. The Dane hated it because it looked more like a dress than anything. James awed at him when he first got the job, pulling him close by his massive tent of a shirt and holding him tightly. 

"You look cute, I bet if you ditched the pants and just wrapped a belt around your waist, you'd make a very pretty Dollar Tree runway model." 

Lars frowned, wishing his blond love was here to tease him about the shirt. He slowly got ready, taking time to slip his pants on and tie his shoes. When he got to the mirror to comb his hair, he could practically see the worry etched into his soft face. His big green eyes were a bit sunken in, and his already pale skin was a shade paler. He gently brushed through his bed head, fluffing it out to its normal feathered state.

Downstairs, Cliff and Kirk's favorite team scored a home run, and they cheered. Today was going to be a long day...

Lars exited his bare apartment, opting to skip breakfast since his stomach was in too many knots to handle food, and made his way down the long spiral staircase. He didn't actually have to be at work until nine, so he figured he'd stop by the Weed Brothers place before going down to see if Bingwen was making coffee in the large kitchen. He liked Cliff and Kirk, they were kind to him and always offered him weed. He never took it though, Bingwen was already pissed off his socks about them smoking it, and Lars was pretty sure that out of all of the attendants in the apartments, the Chinese man actually liked him. 

"Hello, my friends!" He shouted cheerfully over the baseball game, looking into the foggy apartment. The apartment was mostly empty, save a couch and a coffee table, oh, and not to mention the bare mattress with a few sad-looking blankets on it. Kirk was currently rolling a joint on the mattress while Cliff was smoking his own at one of the windows. They immediately stared at the small Dane, smiles breaking out on their faces as they rushed towards him and practically smothered him with a big bear hug. Lars wheezed at the two sets of powerful arms squeezed the life out of him, but he giggled and returned the embrace. 

"We haven't seen you in forever, little buddy!" Cliff exclaimed, pulling away to ruffle Lars' hair, "I was beginning to think James had killed you or something." 

"Oh, well he just hasn't gotten to it yet, you have to give him some time." The Dane explained, trying to ignore the way Kirk was pulling down on his cheek with his thumb. What the curly-headed pothead was doing was trying to get a good look at Lars' eyes, which fascinated him beyond no belief. He had constantly told the short brunette about how rare green eyes were, and James once said he was convinced that if given the chance, Kirk would probably stare into Lars' eyes for hours. 

"Can't say I blame him," The blond once murmured, pecking the Dane softly right between his highly admired eyes, "They _are_ beautiful." 

Lars felt his smile wobble a bit. He missed James so much it hurt. He merely stayed for a few more minutes to chat, reminding the two that James would be on TV that evening. Those two probably wouldn't miss their friend on TV for the world. It would most likely be something to brag about, 'that blond guy who was on Carson tonight, yep, that's my buddy.'

The Dane made his way down the rest of the stairs, passing by Bingwen and his wife, Jiaying. He merely smiled at them before rushing down to the restaurant. James always jumped the counter like a fence, sometimes landing on his face just to get the customers to laugh, while Lars meekly walked around the back and came out of the correct entrance to get into the kitchen. He slowly walked out into the small restaurant, bypassing tables and chairs before unlocking the front door. 

"Bingwen," he called, gaining the owner's attention, "Do you want me to turn on the open sign?" 

"No, thank you, though. What time will you be back?" 

"Hopefully before six, I'd like to see James on the Carson show tonight. The problem is, I'm not sure if my boss is so short handed that he's gonna need me to stay extra..." Lars shook his head, looking down at the tiled floor "I sure would like to see James on TV, it would be good for him to be found by a legitimate agent." 

Bingwen grinned, pouring grounds into the coffee maker, "Sure, _then_ I can get the both of you out of my hair." He laughed, causing the Dane to put on a face of mock hurt. 

"Bingwen, I thought you liked me."

The Chinese man playfully scoffed, pouring fresh water into the coffee maker, "Who gave you that idea?" 

Lars sighed, bored, as he stocked the cleaning supplies on the shelf. The hum of the fluorescent lights above nearly drove him to insanity, as they were constantly in his ear day in and day out. No wonder he and his coworkers nearly leaped with joy when it was time to go, they were stuck in a musty Dollar Tree that barely got any business and constantly stocking stuff only for it to be moved somewhere else by the boss. 

Jake Manson was a forty-seven-year-old man with too much weight to carry and too little soap to wash it with. He constantly smelled of vodka and old, moldy deli roast beef. His thinning hair was always slicked down with either hair gel or lard, as some employees joked, and his face permanently seemed to have two-day stumble with Twinkie crumbs caught in it. He was from down deep in the heart of Boston, and he sure as hell sounded like it. He liked his whores and his money, both of which were forevermore stacked up in his office, which was where he most likely sold drugs to those fidgety customers always asking for him.

Lars did not like Jake Manson, neither did the employees he worked with, and James _especially_ didn't like him. The blond once pointed out on Lars' lunch break that the twenty-dollar prostitute strutting out of the store had a lot of similarities that the Dane did. Long brown hair, big green eyes, pale skin, the only difference was the fact that she was a woman. Or a man, they weren't sure. 

"If he ever puts his hands on you, let me know, so I can fuckin' bash his goddamn skull in." 

James was not joking, and that scared Lars more than Jake Manson ever could.

"Lars," His boss called, waddling up beside him, bringing on the smell of sex, sweat, and rotten sandwiches, "I need you to finish up here and go to the toy aisle, some cunt's brat threw up everywhere and Mindy is too busy cleaning up the can to get it, so go on, skedaddle," Jake ordered, his breath like old cigars and death. 

"Yes sir..." Lars murmured, placing the last container of Clorox Wipes on the shelf before shuffling down the aisle to get to the back rooms where the usual mop and broom were. The lights seemed to laugh at him, their humming pulsing and getting louder, knowing that he was now alone without his James and that the child getting sick was just making things worse. Lars nearly growled at them to shut up, fully aware that if he did, the shoppers would understand. They too were getting annoyed at the lights. 

But they weren't alone.

He was. 


	5. the tonight show

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He swallowed saliva and cigarette smoke nervously, repeating the outro of Gold and Brown in his head over and over again, because fuck, he didn't know what else to think about. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> kinda short but i'm not fcukin writing out the whole interview

"He wants to fucking _what??"_

James blinked down at Tom, hands placed on hips, voice mixed with anger and astonishment. His size-too-big suit hung off of his lanky body, just for the comedic effect, and he had his normal fucked-up sneakers on, again, for the effect. His manager, with his size-too-small suit on, fumbled with his hands, the cigar between his chubby fingers coming so close to burning him that it made the blond nervous. 

"Just like I said, Jamie, he wants to interview you." He explained, pushing down his slicked hair. "Jesus kid, I'd figure you'd be jumping to the goddamn moon over this." 

"Well it doesn't look like I'm fucking jumping, does it?" James snapped, shoving his hand down into his pocket and yanking out a folded piece of paper. He held it up in front of Tom's face, his hand shaking. "You mean to tell me, _five_ _minutes_ before I go on, that I wasted hours last night trying to make my act PG only for Mr. Carson to do a switch-a-roo and interview me? What kind of fucked up bullshit is that?" 

"Jamie, don't fucking get all pissy with me, _I_ was just told that Carson wanted to interview you. I didn't know that the plug was gonna be pulled on your act, Jamie, honest! And besides, what's so bad about sitting down and just having a nice chat with Mr. Carson? You don't have to worry about fuckin' up a joke or saying something you're not supposed to, now tell me, kid, what the fuck is so bad about that?" 

James groaned and plopped down on the small white couch in his temporary dressing room, his feet automatically propping themselves onto the glass table before him. He let out an irritated sigh, knowing damn well that he didn't know what to talk about, he didn't know the questions Johnny was going to ask him. He was terrified if he didn't have things planned out, he was so unsure about how things would turn out that it legitimately made him feel like he was going to throw up. 

"This probably won't be _too_ bad." He murmured, sticking a nail between his teeth. "I might fuck up, but I might not at the same time. It just pisses me off that they had to let me know about this bullshit _now_. Like goddamnit, I barely slept last night and I hopped myself up too much on coffee all day that I'm sweating and I'm a fuckin' mess. I can't go out and just **_talk_** Tom, that's not how I work, you know that." He lied. He would never, _ever_ let his mob manager know that he was currently mentally collapsing and it was all because shit wasn't going the way it was supposed to.

"I know, kid, I know. But trust me, you'll do great." Tom assured, using the hand _holding_ the cigar to pat James on the head. The blond slouched into the couch, a smug smile spreading across his face as he reached into his pocket and brought out his cigarettes. 

"I know I'll do great, Flannery," he informed, sparking up the lighter, "I always do." 

Lars huffed as he plopped down on the couch, his tired and sore body sinking into the cushions comfortably. He had previously _run_ all the way home, pushing through his fatigue from not eating all day to get home. He bypassed Bingwen shouting something and Cliff and Kirk dealing weed to some random guy before slamming into his apartment. Now, he sat, remote in hand, trying to catch his breath through a Klondike commercial. 

Work was _not_ easy. After cleaning the ungodly amount of vomit, the Dane had to swap an entire shelf of products with another one, and to make things worse, the shelves were on the opposite walls of the store. It took him at least two hours, those hours filled with the uncomfortable humming from those goddamn lights and the crack-whores coming up to him and asking where Jake was. Today was a record of four, which surprised Lars because Jake had managed to swallow a heart attack with each one. That man would probably die in the middle of a threesome at two in the morning in the shadiest part of San Francisco. 

Still, that wouldn't surprise Lars one bit. 

He pulled his shoes off as the band started to play, and some weird drawing was plastered on the screen, the _Tonight Show_ was sure to be noticed in its cursive, bubbly letters. Lars could barely keep the smile off his face as he pulled his knees to his chest, his heart pounding in his chest not from the seven blocks he ran, but because his James was going to show up soon, and he would see that magnificent smile. 

James exhaled smoke through his nostrils, pretending in his mind that he was a dragon getting ready to go out and fuck some shit up. It would be better if he had wings, and instead of doing the interview he could just fly his happy ass out of here and go home to his little Dane. But he didn't have wings, so he just had to stay here and actually fuck shit up as himself, not some badass dragon. The back stage guy, James didn't know who the hell he was, continued to motion for the blond to put out the cigarette, mouthing over and over 'put it out.' 

The comic just smiled, teeth holding the butt, smoke curling out of his mouth and reaching up high into the beams and electrical shit that ran this show. No one could tell him what to do now, for he wasn't the shy, blond-headed kid from San Francisco; he was the tall, shit head comedian who was fixing to run this goddamn show as if his life depended on it. It was _his_ time, and he was gonna smoke all the fucking cigarettes he wanted to. 

As Johnny introduced him, he smirked around his cancer stick and shoved his hands deep into his pockets. The crowd outside the curtain started to cheer at his name, clearly only a handful knew who the fuck he was. As the expansive blue wall opened up to him, he made sure to snigger at the backstage guy, who was glaring daggers at him. 

Lars felt his heart explode as James strutted out from the curtains, cigarette in between his lips, hands shoved deep in his pockets, sneakers freshly duck tapped. The blond held such confidence when he walked, such grace and smugness that people just automatically knew that whatever room he was in was _his._ It both bothered and excited Lars, because even though he knew all that confidence was just an act, he couldn't help but feel helpless around James' aura. 

The camera panned as the blond walked, showing both Carson and his guest, some old guy with thin gray hair and a white suit clapping for the comic. James just smiled around his ciggy and shook both of their hands before plopping down gracefully into the guest chair, watching the audience with such boredom on his face that some people actually _laughed._ Lars grinned, only his James could get a laugh by doing nothing. 

He was gonna die. His brain aneurysm was finally going to explode in his head and he was going to die in this very comfy chair next to Johnny Carson and some random-ass old guy. James gripped the arm rest, watching everyone just clap and clap for so damn long that he wanted to shout to be quiet. He could do it, it would be funny and some people would follow his orders. He swallowed saliva and cigarette smoke nervously, repeating the outro of _Golden Brown_ in his head over and over again, because fuck, he didn't know what else to think about. 

Lars felt his smile falter. James was repeating the outro of _Golden Brown_ in his head again, a thing the Dane had seen one too many times when James was about to mentally crash. 

"Oh, no, baby... oh don't be doing what I think you're doing..." The brunette painfully begged at the screen, cringing. 

"So, James," Johnny started, eyeing the cigarette with secret curiosity, "How are you?" 

The blond slouched in his seat, crossed his legs so that his ankle was propped on his knee, and took his smoke from his mouth and exhaled. 

"I'm pretty good," he smothered it against his shoe, the leather hissed, earning a few shocked gasps, "How 'bout you?" James grinned, smug, sharp, and ready to kill this fucking audience with just a _smile._ Just like he always did. You could practically hear Tom Flannery backstage sinking from his concrete shoes; because now, the blond wouldn't need him ever again. 

Nineteen-year-old James Hetfield had the starlight right in the palm of his hand. 


	6. r.i.p tom flannery

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay there is mentions of sexual activity and death so yeah

Lars jumped at the sound of the phone ringing. 

He had accidentally fallen asleep on the couch hours ago, his form crumpled, work clothes wrinkled, TV still on and currently running an old _Rifleman_ episode. He gasped, heart pounding as he looked around the dark apartment, the black and white glow from the TV casting haunting shadows. He quickly reached over and snatched the phone, his disoriented mind racing. _James, he's been hurt, or he hurt someone, he's in jail, he's in the hospital,_ _he's_ ** _dead_** _and Lars never got to tell him how much he loved him..._

"Hello?" Lars asked timidly, pushing his hair from his face, sitting up all the way even if his legs were so cramped it throbbed. 

_ "Hey, Larsy! Did you see the show?" _

The Dane gave a small sigh of relief as James' voice bled through the receiver, and he smiled. 

"James, oh, min skat you were wonderful tonight."

The blond smiled, leaning back on the  _ very _ fancy pillows of the  _ extremely  _ fancy hotel room he was provided. It was bigger than his own home, with a light cream looking wallpaper and snow-white carpet that was almost so perfect that James felt bad walking on it. It came with two nightstands that no one would really ever need, like ever, and the newest model of a TV. They had a pretty good TV back home, except the hotel one was actually from the '80s. There's was from 1974...

He crossed his ankle over the other one, his socks, that had more holes than sock, hung limply from his feet, making it look like they were ginormous. He pulled his cigarette from his lips and exhaled. 

"I'm glad you liked it, baby, I do wish you came along with me. I was thinking about you the whole time, so much so that I could barely register what Carson was saying." He chuckled, smothering his spent cancer stick in a nearby ashtray. "So how are you, green eyes? How was your day?" 

_ "Oh, I'm fine I guess. I actually fell asleep on the fuckin' couch! Heh, I didn't think I could be so tired to sleep on this brick... and my day-"  _ Lars paused, shuffling around,  _ "-oh min skat, who am I kidding? It's been so hard without you here, I miss you so much it hurts. Today was the absolute worst, I had to clean up vomit, and oh my Lord I never knew such a small child could throw up so much! It was like the ocean, James! Oh, and not to mention the  _ **_four_ ** _ prostitutes that came in today looking for Mr. Manson.  _ **_Four,_ ** _ James, four women came in and slept with him in the span of eight hours, and I'm pretty sure a few stayed behind and waited for the others to get there!"  _

James blinked, trying to process the absolute shit storm his little Dane spewed at him. There was vomit, prostitutes... couches...

"Holy shit, babe, what a day you had!" He tucked his free hand under his head, a frown gracing his features. "God, I wish I was there, this bed is too cold and the room is too white, I feel like I'm in a fucking mental asylum. I'm so lonely that I actually put a shirt on a pillow and pretended it was you last night..."

Lars laughed, pulling off his itchy work shirt and throwing it on the opposite side of the couch. He reached around and pulled a throw-blanket to him, wrapping it around his thin shoulders. 

"Don't tell me you fucked a pillow, James." 

_ "I was close to doing it, Lars, only there was nothing  _ **_to_ ** _ fuck."  _ The blond explained, a serious tone coating his voice. The Dane laughed again, an invisible weight lifting ever-so-slightly off his chest. His blond comic was doing fine, albeit missing him. But... he wasn't there, he didn't know what James was physically doing, if it was- he looked over to the clock, squinting through the darkness to see the hands making up three in the morning- late, then God knew what the blond would do after the phone call. 

Lars could see James getting restless, pulling on and taping up his shoes, and going out into the busy stress of New York. He would walk around for hours, get lost, be confused for the rest of the night, end up talking to a bunch of people who were actually gang members, make them laugh, and accidentally be accepted into said gang. It was just his nature to be accepted and liked by everyone, and it was a legitimate surprise that he wasn't unknowingly accepted into at least twenty gangs back home. 

Then, his restlessness (recklessness) would get him in trouble. Either by him destroying public property, trashing a hotel room, or setting fire  _ once again _ to his shoes. Or it could get worse, he could hurt himself by actually living out his famous joke of going down a hill at ungodly speeds and smashing his head against a tree, or he could get into a fight he couldn't handle and have the living shit beaten out of him. Lars could never know, he wasn't there to be the anchor that held James back from uncontrollable chaos. God, Lars  _ really  _ hated Jake Manson more than he ever could at this very moment.

"This is just like old times," The Dane began, trying to erase his terrifying thoughts of his James tied to machines in a hospital bed, "Remember? We would talk for hours on the phone when we first started dating..." 

James smiled to himself, a warm feeling pooling in the pit of his stomach as his mind replayed those unforgettable moments. 

"Oh, yeah... and David would burst into my room and yell at me to get off the phone because it was like three in the morning. Thank God he didn't listen in on the conversations! Heh, remember that time we first tried phone sex?"

_ "Oh, please don't remind me of that!" _ Lars giggled, his blush obviously seeping through the receiver. James chuckled and snuggled his body deeper into his pillows, the warm feeling in his gut getting hotter. 

"It was funny, though! You were so cute and innocent, you got so flustered after the first two minutes you started speaking your mother language..." He paused as that hot feeling crept from his stomach to his groin. He chewed on the inside of his cheek, his voice dropping down to a murmur, "Lars, could you do me a favor?" 

Lars bit his bottom lip, the blush on his cheeks burning so bad that he could probably fry an egg on his face. He  _ knew _ what James was going to ask him to do, and as much as he didn't want to, he couldn't help but feel a little hot and bothered as he imagined the blond just as flustered as he was. He swallowed, his body trembled as he pulled his knees to his chest. 

"What is it?" He asked, knowing the favor already. 

_ "Talk in your mother tongue for me,"  _ James asked quietly, so quiet that Lars almost couldn't hear him over his heart pounding in his ears,  _ "'Cause,  _ **_God_ ** _ , Lars, you know what that does to me... and well, the adrenaline from just being seen by millions of people got to me and- Jesus Christ, I'm just  _ **_really_ ** _ horny, Lars."  _

The Dane sat, shaking, heart fluttering, blush creeping down from his soft cheeks to his chest. He wet his lips, not knowing what to say. James had zero idea what he was saying when he spoke his mother tongue, he could fucking read the encyclopedia and it would get the blond so aroused that all of China could hear him. Lars sighed, caught in the tight space he hadn't been caught in for the longest time. He was sixteen all over again, fumbling with his thoughts as James  _ begged  _ him to speak. He ended up just reading a chapter  _ Of Mice and Men  _ to him and well... 

"James, jeg elsker dig så meget. Jeg håber, at du er sikker, og at du ikke er involveret i en bande ved et uheld. Jeg er så glad for at have dig i mit liv, min skønhed. Kom snart hjem til mig." He began, saying it softly, just the way James liked it... 

_ "Yeah... that's- oh what the fuck?!"  _

Lars frowned... did James just understand him? 

_ "What? What's the matter?"  _

James zipped up his pants, his anger spiking to unfathomable levels as a series of knocks sounded at his door. He cursed and sat up, pulling on his crumbling shoes in case he needed to throw hands with some motherfucker.

"There's someone at the fucking door. Lars, baby, I'll talk to you later, okay? I should be home- I'M FUCKING COMING- by tomorrow night." James stood, clutching the phone so tight he thought he was going to break it. "Green eyes, I gotta go, Iloveyoubye!" He hung up the phone and stomped over to the door, muttering incorrect Danish curses he heard from Lars. Pulling open the very heavy piece of wood separating them, James was met with a man and a cloud of cigar smoke hitting him square in the face. 

"James Hetfield?" He asked, New York accent staining the comic name. He was about an inch or so shorter than the blond and about three decades older. His dark hair was slicked back as a mob boss would slick it, his suit was perfectly tailored, the dark purple material of his dress shirt clashed nicely with his dark coat. He looked like a healthier version of Tom, only he was more like the love child of Richard Nixon and Ronald Reagan, with a little bit of Al Capone in there. His old face had obviously had some work done to it, since the skin was a little stretched and a bit shiny, although his eyes couldn't be seen behind his dark sunglasses. His thick fingers had rings that probably cost more than James' life stacked high on them. 

"Random guy?" The blond asked, crossing his arms across his thin chest, propping himself against the doorway. He hadn't seen this man before and based on the weird, Italian mob-boss vibes this guy gave off, he really wished he hadn't. Come to think of it, he also hadn't seen Tom in a while...

"I'm Joe Ricci," the older man said casually, quickly taking a puff from his cigar and blowing it intentionally in James' face, "I'm a Talent Agent from the new founded Comedy Cellar in Manhattan, I saw you on The Tonight Show this evening," He gave a knowing smirk, his sunglasses moving to glance at the comic's crotch, "Am I interrupting something?" 

James scowled, "Nope, I was just saying goodnight to my girlfriend. Now, did you just come up here to tell me how you make a living, or do you actually have something important to tell me? Because I should really get back to staring at the wall." He spat, tilting his head to the side, venom coating his words. Joe merely chuckled darkly and pushed past James, and oh God, he even  _ walked _ like a mob boss. It was cocky and smug and just like the movies portrayed it. For a brief second, James was sure he was going to die. He immediately ran through every memory he had of his mother and father, of his brothers and sister and friends and Lars as if his life depended on it. 

"Look, kid," Ricci turned around, waiting for James to shut the door and pay attention, "Despite Johnny pulling the 180 on you, you're a goddamn funny son-of-a-bitch-"

James flashed back to Tom telling him that. Had the poor man promised this Joe character that the blond was funny so that his throat didn't get slit?

"-and, well, I'd like to become your agent. I have ties to every best comedy club around here. You say the word, kid, and you'll be performing at anyone you want to, hassle-free. Whaddya say?" Joe asked, popping the cigar back in his mouth and sucking on it like a pacifier. James stood there, dumbly, trying to stack the pros and cons before he met the barrel end of a .38 special. He couldn't ditch Tom like that, not when he'd been there since day one. Plus, he lived all the way in San Francisco, an area that a mobster probably wouldn't want to move to. The blond instead put his hands on his hips and cocked his head to the side again, his eyebrows furrowed. 

"Where's Tom Flannery?" 

Joe Ricci smiled behind his cigar. Since 1976, Tom Flannery had been one of his least heard from earners, and when he  _ was _ heard from, he was always blabbering about new business opportunities that just  _ had  _ to work. Over the last two years, Flannery had come up short with his earnings and hidden away, never to be heard from. That is until two days ago when the bastard decided to ring up and talk about this blond boy he was bringing to New York who was the key to solve all of their money problems. Joe listened, considered the offer, and sent out a Button to pay a visit to Tom.

He watched this young man bring out laughs that were sure to make him rich, that is if he played his cards right. He could tell that this was no ordinary kid, he wasn't going to snap like all the other toothpicks Tom had presented to them. He pulled his fat cigar from his teeth, the flavored smoke rising from his wicked smile like he was the Devil himself. 

"Oh, don't you worry about Tommy, he's out of the business."

In other words, Tom Flannery was wearing a pair of concrete shoes at the bottom of the Hudson River, his dead body bloated in his size-too-small suit. 


	7. san francisco

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hEY this is bad sorry

Hands were touching him, which, combined with him suffering from a nightmare about the Dollar Tree where he worked, scared Lars half to death. He squirmed against them, his dream playing out that Jake Manson was touching him, caressing his cheek with his greasy fingers that had just previously been inside of an STD ridden hooker. 

"Green eyes," James whispered, pecking his temple quickly, so excited to be home that it practically bled through into his voice, "Hey, you Danish fuck, lemme see those pretty eyes." 

"James...?" The Dane murmured, turning over onto his back, rubbing his eye with the heel of his palm. The sun was shining into the room so brightly he thought he died and went to Heaven, and when he saw that beautiful smile, he just knew he was in Heaven. 

"Rise and shine, Sleeping Beauty!" James grinned, kissing the end of Lars' nose playfully, "Get your ass up and gimme a kiss." 

Lars couldn't help but let a big, toothy smile break across his face, and he wrapped his arms around James' shoulders, pulling him down for a 'welcome back' kiss. The sun, plus the feeling of the blond reaching up and holding his face, warmed his body and sent an electric current from his heart down to the tips of his toes. He giggled as James pulled back and carefully bit at his jawline, letting out snorts as a pig would. 

"I thought you weren't coming back until tonight..." He started, gently pushing his boyfriend back to brush those long locks of golden hair away from his face. He wasn't complaining, not one bit, but he didn't think James would want to cut his trip to New York so short. Sure, he was glad that his blond love wasn't hurt or lost in that huge city, but on the other hand, what had driven him back to San Francisco so quickly?

James' smile faltered a bit, and his hands nervously rested on the outsides of Lars' thighs. His big blue eyes, once so bright with excitement, now refused to meet the Danes, and his always quick mouth just flapped open and closed like a fish drowning on air. Lars sat up, his smile now completely gone as he stared at James with furrowed brows.

"Some fucker, Joe Ricci, he wanted to be my agent," James began, caressing the soft skin of Lars' thighs with his thumbs gently, "But I didn't want to hire him. I mean, motherfucker just waltzed into my room like he owned the place, that's why I had to cut our call short. He told me he had ties with every comedy club in New York and that I could get any gig I wanted. But, you know, we're here and he works over there. And I told him that, I told him that but he just got all pissy and-" He shook his head, bringing a hand up to massage his temples, "- I don't know where Tom is. I mean, I looked everywhere, and I couldn't fuckin' find him... I think he either ditched me or Ricci had something to do with him just poofing out of goddamn nowhere." 

"So how did you get back then?" Lars asked, "I mean, I thought your stay was specifically scheduled so that you would come home later tonight. If Tom is gone, how did you get home so quickly? 'Cause Jesus, James, we talked about-" He looked over to the digital alarm clock- "Seven or so hours ago." 

James now looked up at him, a wicked spark in his eye as he grinned. "I snuck onto a plane going to Sacramento, and holy shit was that the smoothest sneak I ever have done. I mean, remember that wedding I snuck into just for some cake? This definitely tops that, for sure! Then, with my fantastic people skills, I was able to scam a guy out of a free ride here." 

Lars blinked, his mouth slightly agape as his still-sleepy brain tried to process all the bullshit James had thrown at him. This motherfucker, being his motherfucking self, was able to sneak his 6'1 body past security onto a plane, then he was able to use his motherfucker tendencies to get a free fucking ride. It really didn't shock Lars that he would do such a thing, he had done much worse in the past. Lars shook his head, hiding his face in his hand with furrowed eyebrows. 

"When exactly did you get here?" 

The blond looked at his watch, that didn't work by the way, and shrugged. "I'd say about five minutes ago." He gave a mischievous grin and pushed the Dane back down on the bed, crawling over him and pinning him down. "Less talk, more kisses." He ordered gently, taking Lars' lips with his own, kissing him like he was shipping off to war tomorrow. 

That was honestly what it felt like getting back home to him, what with Ricci practically on his heels while he searched relentlessly for Tom. The guy was a motherfucking lunatic, offering money that James didn't want, offering gigs that James didn't need, and demanding him to stay in New York. The whole situation was too real for the blond, and as soon as he could get Ricci out of his hotel room once he returned, he shoved all his shit into his suitcase and fled to the airport. Sneaking in the plane was easy since everyone was tired or doped out of their minds, now all he needed to do was just get home. To keep himself calm and avoid mentally collapsing thirty-five-fucking- thousand feet in the sky, he imagined this very moment with his Dane. 

Kissing those lips he loved so dearly, shoving his tongue into that hot mouth and forgetting his own name. He dreamt of that warm skin under his palms, dreamt of those pretty green eyes looking up at him and showing him home. To hell with this shitty apartment, the body writhing under his was where his heart was. Propping himself on his forearms, James threaded his fingers through Lars' long hair, enjoying the small moan he got out of it.

Moving from his lips, the blond gently worked on the small brunette's neck, licking and biting the soft, pale flesh his lips and hands had roamed for years now. Despite Lars being his for the last two years or so, every time he saw him like this, every time he kissed him, every time they made love was like their very first time. James had to admit that the Dane was his rock, his anchor, keeping him from floating off to sea and tearing himself apart slowly. 

"I've missed you so much, Little Dane," He murmured, kissing Lars with as much love as he could muster, "I thought about you every second I was away." 

"Jeg elsker dig min smukke blondine," The Dane gasped, his fingers working at the buttons of the wrinkled dress shirt his lover wore, "Jeg er din, James. Jeg vil altid være..." 

James groaned, his body burning with ecstasy, a white, hot, fiery feeling shot throughout his chest and blinded his mind; the only thoughts he could concoct revolved around his baby, his little Dane. He let Lars peel his shirt off, those small hands running over his flesh and erecting goosebumps all over his back and arms, the electricity zapping fast sharp under his skin. He reached down and fumbled with his belt, desperately trying to get it off before-

The front door slammed shut. 

Lars gasped, his blemished face frozen with fear, his big green eyes had lost their lust. James quickly rolled off of him, pulling his shirt over his crotch to hide his excited little buddy, as their favorite weed brothers entered the room. The blond mentally kicked his own ass for not remembering to lock the door after himself, since now his shirt was gone and his dick was as stiff as a board and Kirk and Cliff were staring at the two with puzzled expressions. 

"Why the fuck are you guys in the same bed?" Kirk asked as he came over to Lars' side of the bed and gave the Dane, who was now sitting, a hug. In case you hadn't noticed, the two delivery boys downstairs had to constantly embrace both James and Lars every time they saw them. Maybe it was a ritual or something? The blond didn't know, all he did know was that his anger and embarrassment levels were at an all-time high and he was possibly going to have to come out to the two morons from downstairs. 

"We can't afford another bed, so we have to share one," Lars explained, tucking a strand of hair behind his ear, keeping his eyes down on the ground. James nodded in agreement, pulling a painful smile across his face. Cliff shoved a cigarette in between his lips as he sniggered. 

"Gay." 

"Cliff!" Kirk laughed, spinning around to face his friend. "You dumb fuck, they're brothers, that would be so wrong if they were gay, dude!" 

Lars merely shrunk back into himself, his already small body becoming even smaller while James merely sunk his teeth into his tongue to keep himself from tearing a new one into both of the weed brothers. He knew that the lie he painted about him and Lars was necessary for them to be together without any further questions, but Jesus, he didn't think it would be so hard. Yes, it would be wrong for brothers to be gay, but what if Kirk meant that it was totally wrong for anyone to be gay? That would be just what James would need, friends lost because of his sexuality.

"Look did you guys come in here to hug Lars and call us gay? Or did you actually have something important to tell us?" He snapped, making sure to put a bit of comedic sass in his questions, "'Cause I don't know about you, little brother, but I'm starving. Six hours in the sky sure does things to your appetite." 

"So when'd ya get back?" 

James looked up from his partially eaten McDonald's pancakes up at Kirk, who, along with Cliff, was obviously sobering up. They'd been at the great Mickey-D's for about an hour now, eating silently and making only small talk. The blond glanced over at Lars who pushed his sausage around on his plate, and cleared his throat.

"About an hour or so ago. I about didn't make it back in one piece." 

Kirk's eyes sparkled with curiosity, and he leaned forward. "What? Why?"

Beside him, James felt his Dane stiffen at the question. Slowly, to avoid getting caught, he snaked his hand under the table and set a comforting hand on Lars' thigh, squeezing it gently. He shrugged and spun his fork unceremoniously in his fingers. 

"Fuckin' sneaking on a plane is not as easy as it sounds, ya dumb fuck. I almost had to goddamn fight that fuckin' flight attendant when that said I wasn't supposed to be on the plane-"

"You _weren't_ supposed to be on the plane though." Lars interrupted, earning a quick smack to the back of the head. 

"Shut the fuck up. Anyway, the fuckin' guy keeps going on with some bullshit about me not belonging there, being a total bitch about it, meanwhile while he's trying to throw my ass out the fuckin' plane takes off and we're already a couple hundred feet in the goddamn air. I don't understand why people have to be such cunts... Anyway, I get back to Sacramento, the guy's trying to get me to stay so my ass could get arrested or something like that, so I book it and get some hippy fuck to give me a ride back home. He was a cheery guy, you guys would like him." 

Cliff and Kirk merely hummed in response, not seeing Lars reach under the table and pinch the shit out of James, getting payback for the smack. 

It sure was good to be home. 


End file.
